


Large Displays of...

by tamiveldura



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Dominance, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 13:06:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3210239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamiveldura/pseuds/tamiveldura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trowa is angry. Wufei isn’t sure how to help. They figure it out together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Large Displays of...

**Author's Note:**

> This jumped on me. I’ve decided 3x5x3 is just a poorly appreciated dynamic.

I shifted on the couch again, anxious and unable to do anything about it. That infuriated me, such inaction. We had been told in no uncertain terms to lay low, keep out of sight, and most certainly not to draw attention to ourselves. Maxwell was excited over the break, I remember him lollygagging around the safehouse as if it were summer vacation. Yuy disappeared to places only Yuy knows, and Winner was somewhere else. Probably with his family if he had any kind of brain in his head.

That’s where I would have been, had I any family left to care for.

It was late. Far past the time I should have been asleep. I turned a page in the book I was not reading and shifted again. There was no way I could sleep. Barton claimed he didn’t have a family but the people here… they certainly care for him. He knows it, I’ve been able to discern that much, but something prevents him from really showing any care in return. I’m not one for large displays of anything, but bottling yourself up can’t be good for the nerves, either.

And if nothing else, Barton has nerves. I don’t think I’d trust a woman to throw knives at me from any distance… and I probably wouldn’t trust many men with the task either. But I’ve seen one of Barton’s shows. He stands there with less life than Heavyarms, as if he’s made out of stone. 

Catharine told me she nicked him once. One of his first shows. Even bleeding he didn’t move a hair, apparently. That little tidbit made me want to poke him, just to see what would happen. The fact that I didn’t was really all that separated myself from Maxwell. The idiot and I had a shockingly similar thought pattern.

I turned the next page in the book. Before I could shift an almighty crash rocked the thin door at my head. I rolled to the floor, the book ended up somewhere else, and had my gun in hand in the span of a blink. The trailer was silent.

Unless someone climbed in a window, Barton was the only one on the other side of that door. I was torn. That crash hadn’t sounded like a mistake (as if Barton would have been careless enough to drop something). The tinkle of glass sounded unmistakably like an object being hurtled against the door with extreme force. If that was the case, I certainly couldn’t blame the man. Chucking something as hard as I could felt like a really, really good idea.

On the other hand, if Barton needed my help (hah, that was also laughable), delaying here beside the couch was certainly not conducive to aid.

But there was no sound at all on the other side of that door.

I stood from my extreme crouch with more than a little hesitation. I wasn’t afraid of what was on the other side of that door, but I really had no idea what to do. Opening it to inquire was probably not going to be welcome, though.

It opened. Glass crunched under black boots and was swept to the side. Barton looked every bit controlled and passive as I’d ever seen him. If I hadn’t heard the crash myself I wouldn’t have believed it was caused by the statue standing before me. I was still having trouble believing it.

“Please excuse me, Wufei.” Polite. Neutral. No, it was less than neutral. It was completely formless.

I could only nod. What was I supposed to do, say no? The Latin crossed the trailer and stepped out, closing the door precisely behind him. The bedroom door lay open. Forgotten.

Yeah, I looked. Wouldn’t you? It was frighteningly Spartan inside. The bed was made with military exactness and there wasn’t a single bit of clutter or dust. No trinkets a person tends to collect, no extra wires or plastic explosive like Maxwell tends to accumulate. Nothing at all except a small fan of glass at my feet. It looked like the remains of a cup.

I nudged the door open a bit further with the toe of my shoe and spotted the dresser. There were only two things on top of it. His clown mask and a framed picture that I didn’t need to peer at any more closely to see. It was the same image I had tucked away among my things. Lord only knew how Winner got the thing, but he passed them around once he had enough copies. It wasn’t often the five of us were together, less so that we were sitting down in generally the same area.

I retreated from the room and looked at the trailer door. My decision stemmed less from conscious thought than emotional instinct and I was through that door before my brain caught up with my feet. By then I’d already come up with an excuse to keep going.

Barton tended to visit the lions when he was upset- but in this vindictive mood he’d only be attacked. I was across the circus grounds at a jog and inside the Big Tent before logic caught up with my brain.

Barton was there, but not with the lions. The man wasn’t stupid, I chided myself. He knew himself better than I did, certainly. And he knew those animals better than anyone ever could. What was I doing? Did I think I would save him from a gruesome death?

I realized I was still holding my gun and tucked it into the back of my pants. Barton was up on the tightrope and obviously in a world of his own.

I don’t know all the names of each move he executed but I didn’t need to know them to recognize that the exercises took more than just balance. They took a level of skill that I and the other pilots really couldn’t come close to matching. Maxwell could rig a bomb with a toothpick and gum, Yuy could crack into any computer with his hands tied… I guess we all had our viable skills. While Barton’s ability to take on any persona had served us well in the past, I don’t think any of us really took his acrobatic experience in to account.

He was damned good.

I sat down at the edge of the high rise stands and just watched him move. The longer I watched the more I began to recognize this experience as Barton’s choice of physical exercise. I did my katas in the morning and Yuy sparred. Maxwell tried to use either of us as a punching bag when he was particularly frustrated. Acrobatics forty feet in the air was Barton’s thrill and release. 

His feet missed the rope. I launched from the bench and vaulted over the stadium barrier with no though in my head other than ‘Holy Shit!’ I didn’t know what I planned, I certainly couldn’t reach him in time, but I was sprinting over the dirt anyway. His body suddenly arrested in mid air and I jerked to a halt in the middle of the tent.

A pair of rings were suspended below the tightrope. I hadn’t been able to see them from the stands. Apparently the fall had been entirely intentional. Barton flipped his body around the two handholds and I floundered in the middle of the arena. Now that I’d made a complete fool of myself I couldn’t really convince my body to slink back to the stands like a whipped dog.

Yeah, ok. He’d scared the crap out of me. There. I admitted it. What are you going to do about it?

I managed to collect myself and stand tall. If I wasn’t going to retreat to the stands than I’d stand here like I meant to do it, damnit.

Barton flipped again and this time I recognized the intent to miss the rings. He fell through the air, spinning faster than I thought a body could without a machine to aid it. I managed to stifle the urge to shout or (foolishly) break his fall with my own body.

He landed in front of me without any room to spare. The force of his drop brought him to one knee and a hand. Considering all those spins I was shocked he managed to land upright, never mind with such precision. I tried not to let it show, but it was a difficult thing.

He looked up as he stood, then down when his head passed mine. He was tall. For some reason that was achingly apparent just now. I couldn’t move, not with his stare stapling me to the dirt like it was.

The lock only lasted a second. It felt like eternity. And when he let me go, let me breathe again, it was only a minute shift of his body that indicated anything at all had changed. I knew then and there he was going to turn and walk away, leave me standing in the middle of the arena completely confused.

Before he could do any such thing I reached up. He stilled at the first sign of movement, back into stone non-life that I couldn’t understand for the life of me. I touched his cheek and that stare retreated like his body did. What little non-interest was there drowned in formless non-feeling. There wasn’t even a twinge of apathy there it was just… a void.

I let my fingers trail over his ear, then curl behind his head. It was immediately obvious I couldn’t bring him to me, so I moved forward instead; pressed myself exactly against him from toe to top. He was aroused. So was I.

Why the hell was I aroused?

There was a pause more pregnant than Barton’s stillness in which I questioned just about every decision I’d ever made in my life. Then I realized I was waiting for him to make the next move. The fact that my body had taken over this interaction wasn’t as frightening as it should have been. The rest of me was just along for the ride, it would seem.

Barton didn’t just move. He made a decision. He bent over me and curled one hand to the back of my head to control its tilt to the exact degree. His other hand wrapped around to my back and pressed the gun into my flesh (and me against him) fiercely. His green eyes were suddenly full and they dared me to question his claim.

Then his mouth was on mine and I was conquered before I ever knew there was an attack to fend off. He thrust his tongue into my mouth, mapped the area efficiently, and slid one mile-long thigh between my legs when I went boneless.

His hands were hard, but not rough. Each touch was a command I followed before I understood it and when he let me breathe again his eyes were gleaming. They said strip. I did so quickly without looking away and I swear they gleamed brighter. 

I was so far out of familiar territory I didn’t even question being naked in the middle of the night out where anyone could walk up to us. Nothing crossed my mind unless he commanded it and somewhere between watching him for weeks on end and come to a tentative understanding, he learned how to speak without speaking.

He moved subtly. His chest rose just a breadth, his arms moved a twitch wider and I knew what he wanted. His clothes were not as familiar as my own garments, so I broke away from his stare and undressed him slowly. I brushed his stomach with my fingertips to make the muscles there tighten, higher over his chest. He crossed his hands to bring the shirt over his head and tossed it to the side himself when I could no longer reach.

His skin was flushed; partly from the workout he’d just had, partly from the rising heat between us. He took a step forward to close the distance and slid a hand against the small of my back that demanded compliance. His other threaded through my hair a moment before he claimed my mouth, arching me back. It wasn’t a tough position, just enough of a reminder of who was in charge here that I was fighting bonelessness again. I pushed against his relentless claim, kissed him harder and forced the fist in my hair to either follow my movement or tug a bit tighter.

He chose to tug, I strained and let the ache ripple down my spine; the sound bounced back up through my chest in a deep, contented moan.

He froze. His stillness swept through me with mild surprise. I let my head fall back against his steady fist to better see him. His green eyes were no longer a void—they surged with emotions I could barely put a name to and some I didn’t recognize.

“Have you done this before?” His voice was a low caress like darkness and chocolate that swept around me and held fast. It was almost as good as his kiss.

“Not with another man.”

“It will hurt the first time.” First. Beginning of a series. Start of a set. He said it with the same masterful assurance that he claimed my body. 

All I could do with balefully reply; “I am not new to pain.”

Amusement. I could see that in the depths of his eyes beneath the layered demand that I submit and the satisfaction that I had done so not quite on his terms. There were darker things in that stare I still didn’t understand but I had little doubt he would show me. He had said ‘first’ after all.

His fist relaxed into something more like a caress. I pushed at his sweatpants next, falling to my knees as I did so. His boots were already off. He probably removed them before he ever scaled the high rope. Then he was shifting his weight with perfect control, one foot to the other, to toss his pants in a warm heap to the side; all I could focus on was the smooth glide of muscle under that tanned skin.

I brushed my fingertips over his thighs, luxuriating in the heat he produced and just as uncertain on where to go next. My touch chased a ripple up to his hip where I stalled. The skin was softer here at the junction of hip and thigh. I wanted to taste it.

Barton hadn’t moved. His breathing was still perfectly even. I gave into the urge and licked quickly along the path of his hipbone. His breath hitched. It was a sound I wanted to hear repeatedly. I licked again, slower this time, and let my breath cool the spot as I passed.

He twitched his hips to the side, far enough to press his arousal along the curve of my jaw where he paused, frozen, allowing himself only that small contact in a moment of weakness. He didn’t have to wait, but I appreciated it and fought to control my suddenly outrageous heartbeat.

I traced the outline of his erection with my fingertips lightly, then with more confidence a second time. I turned my head to press my lips against that delicately wrapped stone and my fingers encountered a liquid at his tip. I smeared it down the vein on the underside and delicately licked my way to the top.

No, I hadn’t done this before but I knew what felt good to me and I knew the mechanics. We needed some kind of lubricant. I laved my tongue over the head and Barton couldn’t suppress a shudder. I decided I would greatly enjoy providing that lubricant. Maybe I could even wring a sound out of him, as he had done to me.

I let my breath bathe his arousal and closed my lips just over the tip, suckled gently. My tongue wondered, testing the ridges and curving expanse with lazy curiosity. Once familiar with the taste of him I eased lower, dragged that tip over the arch and bumps of my palate. My hands aborted his attempt to thrust deeper, faster. I continued sedately, ruthlessly suppressed the gag reflex until I could close my lips around his entire length.

His hands pulled my hair tight and the sensation of dominance flexed over me in a physical wave that arched my back and rolled my eyes. His dark chuckle was like well-tanned leather. His hands tugged just a bit, “Breathe, Wufei.”

No. I pressed my nose into his stomach in protest and my fingers clenched over his thighs. No, I was not going to let a petty need like air stop this. But his voice broke my concentration and my muscles seized in an attempt to swallow.

Barton thrust against my mouth and his cry was beautifully ragged, torn from his throat completely out of control. If I died right here, I could be happy with my life.

I held him close through wave, let his small jerking thrusts shift him in the suction but he did not come. Even through this, his control was nothing less than idyllic. I couldn’t swallow again, not without relaxing my throat first, so rested my teeth against his skin and pulled back so slowly it ached. I exhaled to stifle the urge to cough and it had the wonderful side-effect of cooling his skin. His breath shuddered and I thought I felt his hands tremble, just slightly.

I paused at the tip, or was going to. Barton had other ideas and didn’t let me defy him a second time. He dragged me to my feet and pulled my right leg up, over his hip. He spread me wide before I recognized the plan and thrust a single wet finger inside before I could tense. His thorough kiss prevented my panic and I distantly wondered if the man was psychic.

I tested his hold on my leg. His grip tightened so I used it to brace myself and trusted his balance when I climbed to wrap my other leg around as well. He compensated for the weight as if he’d done this sort of thing before. I tried not to wonder if he had.

Somewhere in the process he started working with two fingers. By the time I was settled he was aligned and his throbbing erection against my most delicate skin forced a sound from my throat I didn’t recognize.

He guided me down and I focused on steady breathing rather than not panicking. It didn’t hurt but it was an odd, unfamiliar sensation. Then his erection dragged over a spot that stole my breath and I couldn’t imagine why I’d never done this before. I thrust myself down, taking him in as deeply as I could manage then vaulted back up again to chase that incredible sensation. I could only find it in random strokes, but they were intense enough to keep me searching despite my growing frustration.

I felt him kneel, a controlled downward fall that countered my upward surge and suddenly he was in control again and every thrust contained stars and shoved the air from my lungs with beautiful force.

I don’t think I embarrassed myself by screaming, but that wave crashed like a typhoon over an ant hill. It was overkill so obliterating that I was certain I lost a few seconds in shock. I opened my eyes in time to see Barton arch, to see a sound catch and lock in his throat even though his mouth opened. I bit his neck under the jaw and released that sound to the air. It fell somewhere between a moan and a wail and the pulse under my tongue tripped over itself. I licked the spot until I felt too heavy to move even that small bit and simply curled closer into his warmth. 

I stirred when the sensation of being lifted finally worked its way through my fogged brain. Barton’s lips on my brow soothed whatever worry I had. I relaxed in his firm grip and let him care for me, as I have let no one else; content that ‘first’ was not also ‘last.’


End file.
